Dead Birds Sing No Songs
by Far Away In Wonderland
Summary: "Then maybe you shouldn't start with the 'what', but the 'why', Stiles," the woman said. She put the pen and the notebook aside and folded her hands in her lap. "Tell me why you killed Scott McCall."
1. Of Beginnings

**As of yet unbetaed. English isn´t my mother language, therefore there may be some mistakes.**

 **I tried to research as much as possible. Because it has been some time since I last saw Teen Wolf, please excuse any discrepancy between my story and the series.**

 **WARNING: Mental Health Issues; Mental Instability; Mental Institutions; Panic Attacks**

 **I have no experience with the issues mentioned above. If anything is depicted wrong or offensive in any way, please tell me.**

* * *

There were two people in the room.

The room itself was quite nice to look at. On the one side a big window front allowed the inhabitants to gaze upon a lush meadow, encompassed by old and sturdy oak trees. A little trail cut through the grass and led to a little pond at the edge of the meadow, right where the trees began to grow. A bench invited the stroller to sit down and to allow the serene atmosphere of the clearing to clean ones mind from all the sorrow the hectic human society brought.

The walls next to the windows were painted in a beige tone that went perfectly with the dark brown parquet floor, seemingly continuing the theme of nature and calmness that already begun in the little garden outside. The ceiling was high – at least three meters – with a grand chandelier hanging right in the middle of it. Its lights bulb shone in a warm yellowish tone and – together with the large window front – took care that the whole room was suffused with light.

The room itself was furnished rather spartan. A big grandfather clock stood at one wall, its pendulum always swinging back and forth. On the other wall a big shelf filled with books of many kind. Dickens, Hemmingway, Tolkien, Goethe and Shakespeare stood side by side, the letters on their spine already faded away due to the sunlight constantly streaming in through the windows.

Two couches stood right in front of the windows. And on each one a person sat. On the right couch was a woman. Of black skin tone she wore her hair in a tight knot at the back of her head. Her chocolate brown eyes were hidden behind black glasses, intensely scrutinizing the person on the other couch, while her mouth was pressed into a thin line. Around her neck was a necklace made of white pearls – an heirloom that always went to the firstborn girl in her family. Her blouse was of pink colour – not that terrible garish pink young girls liked to wear, but a more muted tone – and her well-manicured nails were painted in a similar hue that went very well with the blouse. A black skirt and black stilettos finished the ensemble and gave the woman an aura of sophistication and professionalism.

In one hand she hold a notebook, in the other a pen. The pages were still empty, waiting for the woman to write down her observations. From time to time the woman would click the ball pen, the noise disrupting the silence that penetrated the room.

While the woman was calm and composed the same could not be said from the person right opposite of her. The teenage boy – for he still looked like one even though he was already nineteen according to his file – was nervously fidgeting with his fingers. His dark brown hair was tousled, probably because every now and then the boy would run his finger through it. His whiskey-golden eyes never focused on anything, his gaze constantly roaming through the room. The only area the boy avoided to look at was where the woman was sitting. Deep shadows surrounded his eyes, caused by nightmares and the following sleep deprivation. His sickly-pale skin was littered with moles that looked like star constellations. The boy was rather lanky and his legs and arms looked to be too long for his body. He wore a black shirt, the font on it commanding the Avengers to assemble. There seemed to be always tension in his body, like he was ready to flee every moment.

"Stiles," the woman said and for the first time the boy looked at her.

"That is what you want to be called, isn´t it?" the woman continued. The boy – Stiles – remained silent.

"Tell me," the woman probed, "why are you here?" Stiles smiled. It was mirthless and lacking any warmth. As if he couldn't remember what to feel anymore and this was just a bodily reaction.

"Haven´t you read the file about me?" he asked mockingly. He looked her in the eyes. Dead, cold, ruthless. His gaze appraised her like she was some kind of animal led to its slaughter. Broken. Despaired. She wrote it down.

"I have," the woman replied evenly. "But I like to hear it from you. Those reports…often they only show us one side of the story. But I´d like to hear yours." She smiled at him. He didn't react. "After all that´s why I´m here. To hear your side of the story."

"You aren't the first one," Stiles said. "And you won´t be the last. They all want to 'hear my story'." He snorted in disbelief. "And then they look at me full of pity. Like I´m a broken, little thing. I don´t need pity. Never needed it." He paused for a moment. "Have you ever seen a bird with broken wings? They never stop trying to fly. They don't understand that their wings are clipped and continue flapping their wings, trying to escape. But there is none." As he stopped talking so did the woman stop writing.

"Are your wings broken?" the woman asked. Stiles didn't answer. Silence stretched between the woman and the boy. Eternity could have passed by or only a few seconds.

"Let me hear your story, Stiles," the woman implored. "And I won´t give you pity." The boy seemed to think about it. He looked her straight in the eyes. Then his gaze broke and he looked down on the ground.

"I don't know where to begin," he whispered and only the silence of the room allowed the woman to hear it. "I don´t know what to tell."

"Then maybe you shouldn't start with the 'what', but the 'why'," the woman said. She put the pen and the notebook aside and folded her hands in her lap. "Tell me why you killed Scott McCall."

* * *

 _Stiles starred at Allison._

 _She stood there, in front of the wall, holding her bow in one hand and an arrow in the other. She wore black leather – like always when the Pack had to fight – and her hair was tousled by the constant fighting motions she went through since the attack had started. Her gaze was fierce and full of determination. She looked like the Artemis incarnate._

 _Stiles looked around. He could see the other fighting against the Oni. Scott, Derek, Isaac; their eyes glowing bright in gold, red and blue in the dark surroundings. Their claws were extended, ripping through the Oni like a hot knife through butter. But it was to no avail. The Oni dissolved into black smoke only to reappear a few meters away. Their onslaught never lessened while the attacks of the Pack became more sluggish and slower._

 _Stiles turned around. He could see Aiden lying in a pool of his blood. The flickering lights of the underbridge made his skin look so white, a stark contrast to the dark red of the blood._

 _Stiles turned back to the main fighting. It had stopped. Everything was frozen in mid-action. He could see every particle of dust swirling through the air, every drop of blood and every crack in the wall. Mist gathered, its tendrils slowly creeping forward until it covered everything but Allison and Stiles. The world was white and nothing was left._

 _Lights flashed and suddenly he stood in front of Allison, a sword in his hand._

' _Please, no, please, please, not again, please, don´t.'_

 _His hand shot forth. The sword ripped through Allison. Stiles could feel bones breaking, tissue being ripped apart, blood flowing over his hands. Allison looked at him, her eyes wide in shock and her mouth opened in a silent scream, blood colouring her lips deep red._

 _Lights flashed again and Stiles was kneeling on the ground, Allison´s head lying in his lap. She tried to speak, but only blood poured out of her mouth. Stiles bend forward, bringing his head near Allisons to hear what she was saying._

" _Murderer," Allison wheezed. Coldness spread throughout Stiles' body. He straightened up only to see that Allison´s body had evaporated into nothing but ash._

" _Murderer." He looked up, still kneeling on the ground. Allison stood before him. Her black ensemble had vanished and was replaced by a white nightgown. She looked like an Angel of Death. Blood soaked through the thin fabric, turning it from white to deep red._

" _Murderer." She took a step forward._

' _I´m sorry,' Stiles wanted to scream but no sound would make it past his lips. Tears were filling his eyes, blurring everything around him._

" _Murderer." Another Allison appeared._

" _Murderer." Another. "Murderer." Another. "Murderer." All around him Allison was standing, gazing upon his kneeling form with accusatory glances. Their voices united into one giant chant._

" _Murderer. Murderer. Murderer. Murderer."_

* * *

Stiles woke with a deep gasp.

He felt like he was suffocating and he just couldn't stop shaking. His vision blurred and he could hear his blood pounding in his ears. The walls seemed to come closer and the shadows wanted to devour him. The room was to tiny. He couldn't breathe. Everything was moving, turning around and he just wanted everything to stop. It was too much, too fast.

He could still hear Allison in his mind. Her accusation repeated over and over again, like a broken record. Stiles was sure that if he looked down on his hands they would be stained with her blood. Every time he closed his eyes he saw her standing in that white blood-soaked nightgown, her gaze devoid of life.

Stiles barely noticed when the door opened and the light was turned on. He barely heard his father´s voice; barely felt his hand running soothingly over his back.

"Breath, son," he could her his father through the haze he was in. "Breath in and out. In and out." Stiles latched onto his father's words like they were a life-line that prevented him from drowning in his guilt. He could breath. Breathing was easy. He did it every day. Just breathing. That wasn't difficult. In and out. In and out.

The panic receded. Allison´s voice grew quiet until he could no longer hear her and his body stopped shaking. The weight on his chest lifted and he was able to breathe again.

Stiles looked at his dad. The lines on his faces had deepened over the last few weeks and his gaze held a constant sorrow. Instantly guilt welled up within Stiles and the only thing he could do was to avert his gaze.

It was his fault.

His fault that his father came home every night late, because he couldn't stand being in the house that held nothing but a son who had brought nothing but destruction on the town he had sworn to protect and the memories of a long lost love that taunted him wherever he went.

His fault that his father´s only companion at night was a bottle of cheap whiskey wherein he tried to drown his sorrows. Every night Stiles could hear his father staggering up the stairs, his helpless fumbling when he tried to open the door to his bedroom. And now his nightmares deprived his father of the sleep he so desperately needed to escape the hell that was their house just a little bit.

"Everything alright?" Stile´s dad asked. And Stiles nearly broke.

He wanted to tell his father of the guilt that consumed him every second he was awake and that threatened to overtake him completely every time he saw Scott or Lydia, the persons that had been closest to Allison.

He wanted to tell his dad of the nightmares that made every second he was asleep like living hell. Of the tortures that his subconscious dreamed up the moment he closed his eyes.

He wanted to tell his dad that he was a murderer and that Allison´s death was his fault alone. The nogitsune may have possessed him, but it was his plans it acted on. How could a thousand-years old fox-spirit know how to cut the power lines in a hospital? How did a demon that had been imprisoned for the last decades know how to best hurt his friends? That was him; all him.

But Stiles couldn't tell his dad that. He didn't want the only person that still held a tiny bit of affection – of love – for him to turn away from him with disgust, leaving him alone with his guilt in the dark. He just wanted his dad to hold him forever and make the world go away like he had when he was still a little child.

However Stiles knew that he didn't deserve that. He needed the pain to remind him what kind of monster he was. He couldn't forget what he had done – what he was guilty of – because everyone else was willing to forget and forgive. Stiles didn't deserve forgiveness.

"I´m fine," Stiles lied. He didn't look in his father´s face. One look and he would know that Stiles lied. His father huffed in disappointment and new guilt was instantly added to the load Stiles was already carrying. It seems that even with everything out in the open Stiles couldn't stop lying to his own father.

"If you need something…" his dad started only for his voice to fade out. He had already said it so much, but Stiles never took him up on his offer. The pain was his alone to carry.

"I love you, son," his father whispered and closed the door behind him. Stiles waited for a few moments. Then he holed himself up on his bed and began to cry until there was no tear left anymore. He cried until he was so exhausted that he fell asleep.

Allison was already waiting for him.

* * *

Stiles haunted the hallways of the school like a ghost.

People everywhere tried to avoid him. That wasn't something new – after all he had been that spastic kid that couldn't keep his mouth shut for his whole life – but the fervour with which they did was something new. Everyone knew that he had been in Eichenhouse. People whispered behind his back that they had always known that he would end up there someday. When he looked at them they scuttled away as if he would explode and murder them if they dared to look at him any longer.

The worst, though, was seeing the Pack.

Kira didn't know how to react to him. She hadn't known Allison very well, but she saw how her death affected everyone around her. She tried to make up the gloom of the others by being extra cheerful, but Stiles could see how her smile would fall off her face whenever she thought nobody was looking. She was always extra careful around Stiles, as if she feared that she would break him.

 _As if she feared that you´d murder her as well,_ a voice in his head so gracefully supplied.

Isaac walked through the school like a ghost as well. His skin was unhealthy pale – Stiles didn't knew that it was possible for werewolves – and everything of colour seemed to have been banned from his wardrobe. He didn't speak much with Stiles and had taken to avoid him whenever he could. He seemed to be the only one that blamed Stiles for Allison´s death. Correctly so. Stiles wondered how long he would keep staying in Beacon Hills. There was nothing left in this town for Isaac, but the spectres of the people he had lost. Brother, father, friends and lover.

Lydia had devolved back to the uncaring bitch she had been before the supernatural had taken over their life. She had grabbed the first good-looking athlete she could get her hands on and declared him her new boyfriend. Sometimes when Lydia entered the cafeteria and she saw them sitting at their table, Stiles saw a longing gleam she directed at them in her eyes before she straightened her back, put back her mask and walked over to the popular table.

She tried so hard to be uncaring – to be the perfect little doll she had been before – but when she left the girls restroom one day Stiles saw that her eyes were wet and her eye-liner and make-up newly applied. She looked at him, saw him standing there and dragged him into an empty classroom where she buried her head into his chest and began to cry.

Stiles could do nothing but hold her as she bemoaned the death of her best friend. He felt terrible. How could he even try to help Lydia with her grief when he was the cause of it? So he didn't say anything and kept holding her.

When Lydia had finished, she straightened up, rearranged her hair and dried away her tears. One last look at Stiles and then she left the room. They hadn't spoken since then.

Scott – Scott he couldn't even bear looking at. Every time Stiles saw his best friend – his brother in all but blood – he assured Stiles that it wasn't his fault that. Allison had died.

 _It was the nogitsune´s fault_ , he would say, _you couldn't have done anything to prevent it._

Stiles wanted to scream that this was a lie. The nogitsune had possessed him, because he had been the weakest in the Pack; the weakest in a chain made of the strongest links.

Scott tried so hard to act as if nothing had happened. As if there was no gaping hole in his heart that had once been filled by Allison. But Stiles could find no humour in the jokes they traded and no comfort in their usual rituals. They just reminded him of a time when everything had been fine and the supernatural hadn't fucked up their lives this much.

Stiles couldn't look Scott in the eyes and not think how much Scott must blame him.

 _Your fault_ , they seemed to scream. _Your weakness has taken the love of my life from me._

Stiles would never deny it.

* * *

Stiles was alone in his room when he suddenly felt as if someone was observing him.

It was that tickling feeling at the back of your neck that you got when you were sure that somebody was looking at you. But there was no one but Stiles in his room. Yet the feeling wouldn't abate.

"Who is there?" Stiles asked into the emptiness. For a while nothing happened. Then – in the shadows in the corner of his room – something seemed to move. Stiles couldn't discern what it was but every second its form became clearer.

When the figure stepped out of the shadow, Stiles heart seemed to stop.

"Hi, Stiles," Allison said.

* * *

The woman stopped writing when Stiles stopped with his tale. She looked up at the boy who seemed to be lost in his own thoughts, his head tilting towards the windows. She shut her notebook and laid it aside.

The noise seemed to tear Stiles out of his reverie. His head snapped back towards her and his posture stiffened.

"Do I have it?" he asked.

"What do you have?" the woman asked as she leaned back, still observing the boy.

"Your pity," he answered and looked her straight in the eyes.

"How can I pity you, when I don´t know the whole story?" the woman answered back. "I´m not here to judge you – that has already been done – I´m here to listen to you."

"Do you even want to?" the youth asked and for the first time there was some emotion in his voice. Curiosity.

"Yes," the woman replied instantly. "I want to listen to your story. Everyone deserves to be heard, even if it´s only my ears that will hear the story." Both remained silent after this; the woman completely calm and collected while Stiles started to fidget again.

It couldn't be denied: Hearing the story and telling it; that had created a bond between them. A delicate strand of fate that tied them together until the whole story was heard. Maybe they knew it – or could feel it – or maybe they were both completely unaware. It didn't matter.

"I think we had enough for today," the woman finally disrupted the silence. "We have both things to contemplate. Maybe you even more than I. We´ll continue tomorrow."

"Do you believe me?" Stiles asked, as if he hadn't heard what the woman had said. The woman stilled in her movements, her complete attention focused back on the boy sitting on the couch. Stiles averted his gaze. The whole world seemed to hold its breath. Time had stopped and there was nothing but two people sitting in the room.

"Does it matter?" the woman asked. The world continued spinning.

"No," Stiles replied after a while. "No, it really doesn't."

* * *

 **So, I had this undeniable desire to write some angsty and dark Teen Wolf stuff and that is what happened. Hope that you liked it :)**

 **There will be two chapters (three in case I write too much) and I try to write and publish the rest within the next week.**


	2. Of Endings

It was raining outside.

A grey mist hung over the meadow, obstructing the view of anyone looking out of the window. Rain drops collided with the windows and ran down the glass, thus creating an ever-changing pattern on the transparent surface. The rhythmic sound of the drops banging against the window created a relaxing atmosphere, encasing them in a cocoon of calmness.

Within the room the two occupants had again taken their usual spot; not really looking at each other. Stiles' arms were wrapped around his knees and his gaze directed at the outside. The woman opposite of him sat straight, her notebook on her lap, one hand holding the pan, the other playing with a curl of her hair.

"It is beautiful, isn´t it?" the woman commented after a long stretch of silence. Stiles looked up, his gaze questioning as if probing the woman to continue.

"The rain," the woman added. She turned her head to the right and looked at the raindrops falling from the grey sky. "It has something calming, don´t you think? To sit here, where it is warm and safe while outside it looks as if the whole world would drown. It makes you appreciate the little things you have even more." Stiles just shrugged. He hadn't spent a single thought on rain in his life. Why should he start now? He didn't care.

"But let´s not talk about the rain," the woman continued. "Let´s talk about what happened after Allison appeared in your room."

* * *

"A-A-Allison?" Stiles whispered. Her name hung between them like an invisible thread, slowly tying them together. The figure that looked like Allison gazed at him and Stiles suddenly felt very small and insignificant as he looked in the eyes of the girl he had murdered.

"Stiles." That voice. That voice so full of warmth and strength. That never judged, never hurt and had always been one of the first to laugh. That was Allison.

"Allison," Stiles repeated as his sight blurred. Tears swelled up and Stiles had to supress the sobs that threatened to wrack his body. "Are you – are you real?"

"That depends on your definition of reality," Allison answered and smiled at him. "I´m as real as you want me to be." She came a few steps closer.

"I killed you," Stiles said despondently. Allison sat down beside him and looked at him. She didn't touch him. Stiles didn't try to reach out. It was all to fresh – to raw – and he didn't know how he should react. What do you say to the person whose death is on your consciousness? How to apologize for the life that you personally robbed away? So he kept quiet and looked at Allison.

"You did," Allison answered. "As did the Nogitsune. Scott was there and he didn't save me. Lydia wasn't there and didn't save me either. Melissa McCall, your dad, Deaton…they all weren't there. Maybe they could have saved me. Maybe you could have wringed back control of your body before the Nogitsune killed me. We´ll never know. And yet – and yet I blame none of them. And I don't blame you."

It was like a dam had been broken. Every shred of self-control that Stiles had possessed a few seconds ago disappeared as the tears he had tried to hold back spilt over and ran down his cheeks and as sobs wracked his body. Those few words of absolution were what he had so desperately hoped for and yet had feared to never receive. It was more than he deserved.

"How can you forgive me?" he asked hoarsely.

"Because you are my friend," Allison answered. "And none of my friends deserves to live his life in such anguish." Stiles swallowed.

"Have you visited Scott?" he asked. Allison´s expression was downcast.

"He won´t see me," she whispered. "He can´t. Neither can my dad." A moment of silence. "Please, can I stay with you?" When Allison looked at him her gaze was so vulnerable – so hurt and so lonely – that Stiles couldn't bring himself to deny her request.

"Of course you can," he said. Allison smiled at him. A tiny smile – nearly unrecognizable – but it was there and it lifted the heavy pressure off Stile´s shoulders. Then she vanished and Stiles was alone in his room again.

* * *

"My, my, what an honour," Peter purred as Stiles entered the loft. "That you deign yourself to leave that ivory tower of yours." He grinned, his eyes flashing blue while he slowly strode towards Stiles.

From all the werewolves and other supernatural beings Stiles had met over the course of the last year Peter was the one where the animal underneath the human skin showed through the most. Sure, Derek growled a lot and Scott had his puppy-look, but Peter – Peter had the elegance, the predatory gaze, the grin that showed too much teeth. He wove traps – both physical and psychological – to lure his prey in and took his time until he finished it off. He lurked in the shadows and only allowed you to see what he wanted you to see. There was no wolf and no Peter – they were facets of the same being that walked through life and took whatever stroke its fancy. No guilt, no remorse, just the right of the strong. So unlike Scott who clung to his humanity as if it was the only thing that prevented him from descend into madness or Derek who carried guilt – a human emotion; _so human_ – wherever he went.

"I have a question for you," Stiles said while he kept his heartbeat under control. Show now emotion, no weakness, or the big bad wolf would come and eat you.

"Questions," Peter repeated. "You truly must be desperate to come to me for answers, Stiles. Does the internet not yield what you are looking for? Has your banshee declined to help you? What could be so important that you chose to come to me with it?" He enjoyed it. Enjoyed having Stiles at his mercy; enjoyed playing with him. The predator whose prey voluntarily came into its den.

"You cannot guess it?" Stiles shot back. "What reasons could I possibly have to come to you other than that my other resources can´t give me what I´m looking for."

"But you do not even know whether or not I will answer these question of yours," Peter taunted and somehow his grin grew even wider. "I could simply refuse."

"But you won´t," Stiles said with utter conviction. Peter raised an eyebrow at him.

"And do you know why?" Stiles continued looking Peter directly in the eyes. The stood apart, completely still and yet they also circled each other: Observing, testing, trying to find the other´s weakness and exploit it. The prey had grown fangs and now there were only two predators sizing each other.

"Enlighten me, Stiles," Peter purred.

"Because you are bored," Stiles replied. "So many months passed by and nothing happened. No supernatural crisis that makes the pack come to you for your expertise. Nothing you could exploit to make yourself more powerful. You just stay here and wait for something to happen – but nothing does.

And even if something was to happen – who says that anyone would turn to you? Between me, Lydia and the codex you so generously handed over to us, we have amassed much knowledge. You are a relict – your sanity and body held together by magic – and do you know what happens to relicts?" Stiles grinned and in this moment – when you would look at his face, devoid of any warmth and sympathy – you were hard pressed to believe that the nogitsune had truly relinquished its hold over the boy. "They get left behind and become forgotten."

Of course it was all a bluff. The pack was so fractured – so hurt – that the next supernatural threat would have no problem whatsoever to eliminate them all. The friendship that had tethered them together had been reduced from a wall of fire to dying embers and now the only thing that held them together were secrets and the dead they left behind.

"And yet this _relict_ is your last resort," Peter smirked. "Seems to me as if I´m still in business after all."

"There is also the chance that you can use what I ask for your own gains," Stiles said nonchalantly. Peter´s eyes seemed to lighten up when he heard that.

"Then I shall endeavour to answer any questions you might have to the fullest extent of my abilities," he replied.

"What do you know about ghosts?" Stiles asked. Peter looked at him – confused, puzzled – for the first time in this conversation. But it didn't last long: after a few seconds his mask was back in place.

"Why would you like to know?" he asked. "Do mysterious noises keep you awake at night? The sound of metal chains being dragged over the ground? Did a white blanket scare you?" He tilted his head.

"Or is it something deeper?" he mused. "Shadows circling in the corner of your eyes? The feeling that your body isn´t your own, as if you were only an observer?"

"He knows nothing," Allison said, appearing behind Peter who continued speaking. But Stiles didn't hear him anymore, looking at the ghostly outline of his friend. "He´s just stringing you along; having fun at your expense."

"You seem to be a little…unfocused," Peter said and stepped into his field of vision. Stiles tried to sidestep him, but Allison had already vanished again.

"So you don't know anything, do you?" Stiles bit back venomously.

"Ghost are just that, Stiles," Peter said and for the first time his voice was devoid of any taunting or false cheeriness. "Just figments of our imagination. They can be anything – a person, a thought, a plan – hunting your subconscious. There is no use in holding on to them; no use in holding on to the ideals we have erected in our minds because the world is too cruel for us to take; no use in remembering persons, because in the end we only remember what we want to and blend out everything that doesn't fit. They will just drag you down."

Stiles just nodded, turned around and walked out of the loft. Outside he saw Allison sitting on the stairs.

"Are you real?" he asked hoarsely.

"You´ve already asked that," Allison replied as the sun light shone through her air. "And I already answered."

"I need you to be real," Stiles whispered. Because that meant that she had forgiven him, that he wasn't at fault.

"Then I´ll be it," Allison said and stood up. "You should probably go, though. I´ll look around town a little bit. See what has changed since I last saw it." Stiles nodded and walked out of the building.

* * *

"Why were you talking with Peter?" Derek´s voice came so sudden from behind that Stiles didn't even think about his actions. He took a swing only for the older werewolf to catch his arm mid-swing, which in turn led to Stiles losing his balance and tumbling to the ground.

"Next time warn a guy when you sneak up on him," Stiles said as he collected himself from the ground. "And how do you even know that I talked with Peter? Are you stalking me?" Derek just looked at him, completely unfazed.

"Oh my god, you totally are!" Stiles exclaimed. "I don't know if I should feel honoured that you think I´m hot enough to be stalked or creeped out because you think I´m hot enough to be stalked." Stiles could see one of Derek´s eyebrows twitching and he knew that he had already annoyed the man.

"What did you want from Peter?" Derek asked, completely ignoring what Stiles had said before.

"That´s none of your business, sourwolf!" The eyebrow twitching intensified. "Maybe I just wanted to have a nice little chat about the best receipt for chocolate cookies? I have this theory that the older you get the better you become at baking – because nothing tastes better than cookies made by grandmas – and Peter is one of the oldest person I know. My dad doesn't count because he can´t bake to save his life…" Stiles rambling was interrupted by Derek who covered Stiles' mouth with his hand to interrupt the teen from talking.

"What did you want from Peter?" he repeated.

"I asked him a question about something," Stiles answered annoyed after Derek allowed him to speak again. "And now I´ll drive home and you can climb back in the cave you came from, because your manners are definitely caveman!" Stiles was about to close the car`s door when Derek said one last thing.

"Don´t believe anything Peter tells you." Stiles hesitated for a short moment and then closed the door. When he looked back Derek had already vanished.

* * *

"I´m so lonely, Stiles," Allison whispered as Stiles woke from his latest nightmare. "So lonely." He panted for air as he tried to shake off the after effects of the gruesome picture that still plagued his mind.

"I want to talk to Scott," she said and Stiles just starred at her.

"But you can´t," he replied after a while. "He can´t see you."

"Maybe he will someday," Allison said and Stiles fell asleep again. The next morning, he thought of that nightly occurrence as nothing more but a dream.

* * *

"He´s so unhappy," Allison commented. Stiles had been talking to Scott – tense, awkward, but it was a step forward – when she appeared behind the alpha in the school hallway. Stiles tensed up and his eyes darted from the form of his friend´s lover to said friend himself who continued talking.

"Don't you see how broken he is?" Allison asked as she stepped forward and laid one hand on Scott´s shoulder. He didn't notice.

"I wish I could talk to him," Allison whispered as her hand wandered upwards, slowly caressing Scott´s cheek. "Tell him one last time that I love him and that I´ll be waiting for him no matter how long it takes." She walked around the alpha werewolf until she stood in front of him.

"I want to ease the pain," she continued. "I want him to be happy again. Don't you see, Stiles?" She turned her head around and met his gaze. "He´s just going through the motions. When was the last time he laughed? The last time he had fun? The last time when there wasn't this depressing aura of melancholia and longing around him? I want him to be whole again. With me." She leaned forward and pressed a kiss on Scott´s mouth.

"Stiles, hey buddy." Stiles blinked. Allison wasn't there, instead Scott was standing before him, waving with his hands.

"You just zoned out, man," the teenager explained. "Really creepy."

"Sorry," Stiles mumbled. "What did you say?"

* * *

" _I love him, Stiles."_

* * *

" _Why isn´t he happy?"_

* * *

" _Just one last talk. Just one, please."_

* * *

" _I want to be with him, again. I feel so hollow; as if something was missing inside of me."_

* * *

" _Please, I beg you."_

* * *

" _He would be happy with me. Like he was before."_

* * *

" _Why won´t you help me, Stiles?"_

* * *

Stiles hadn't slept in days. Wherever he went, whatever he did, Allison was there and kept distracting him. She wanted so desperately to be with Scott – to talk to him – but the werewolf wouldn't see or hear her. As the time passed by Allison became more insistent, her pleas more desperate.

Stiles tried to help; he did, really. But no ritual that he found would work and there was no magic to bring one back from the death. Peter did it, but Stiles knew instinctively that playing with the forces of Life and Death like the older Hale had done came at a cost. He wouldn't do that to Allison.

He had offered to convey her messages to Scott, but Allison had declined, saying that it wouldn't help. Only she could ease Scott´s suffering.

* * *

" _If I hadn't died, we´d still be together."_

* * *

" _Do you think he would have invited me to the prom? Now we´ll never know."_

* * *

" _He was my first true love, but we were never meant to last, weren´t we?"_

* * *

" _If you had been stronger, maybe I´d still live."_

* * *

" _The nogitsune killed me, but it was your body that was its weapon. Don´t you think I`m entitled to at least a little bit compensation?"_

* * *

" _Come on, Stiles. It was your fault. Help me!"_

* * *

" _Killer."_

* * *

" _Murderer."_

* * *

Wherever Stiles went there was Allison. Her brown eyes would stare at him full of unshed tears while she would throw accusation after accusation at him; every of them hitting him harder than a bullet.

After all, they were true.

And maybe she was right after all. Maybe he had just imagined Scott getting better. His friend seemed to get worse again. More withdrawn and prone to sudden outburst of anger. Maybe he just needed to speak to Allison. For peace of his soul and mind. And wasn't it Stiles' responsibility as both Scott´s best friend and the cause of all this to make amends?

Allison was right. He owed it to both of them. And maybe he could sleep in peace again after that.

"I´ll help you," he whispered into the darkness of his room. Sitting on his window sill, Allison smiled.

* * *

It had been easy. One special kind of wolfsbane and one thirsty alpha werewolf and now they were here.

"Stiles, I´m so tired," Scott mumbled, laying on the couch. He looked so peaceful. All the traces of the stress and the pain since Allison´s death slowly leaving his face. That was how it should be. Scott shouldn't know how it felt to lose something you loved so hard. He should be the naïve, trusting, oblivious guy with the puppy-eyes who would spend his whole day doing stupid things with Stiles. Not this shell of the former who knew how it was to have loved ones killed – or to be a killer himself. This life wasn't something for him.

Stiles felt at peace, knowing that in the end he stayed true to Scott.

"It´s okay," he assured his best friend. "Everything is fine. You´re gonna see Allison again." The girl was sitting beside Scott, her hands slowly running through his hair. "She has so much to say to you."

"Allison?" Scott asked drowsily. "Allison?" His eyes were slowly closing. His breath evened out. Silence descended upon them. The world seemed to come to a standstill, everything holding its breath. Wind rose up and rushed through the open windows, sweeping away the pieces of paper that laid on the coffee table.

Stiles looked at Scott´s face. One last breath. Then stillness.

"I did it, Allison. He´s with you now." There was no one. "Allison? Allison?" No answer.

* * *

The story ended. The lights went out, the curtains closed. Darkness descended.

The rain had stopped and the sun was shining on the little meadow behind the windows. Little rain drops on the ground reflected the light, making it look as if thousand little diamonds littered the ground. A few birds flew around, now that the rain no longer hindered them from doing so.

The woman had stopped writing in her notebook. Pages which had been blank and pure a few hours ago were now riddled with narrow letters. Letters to words and words to stories.

"So now you know why I did it," Stiles said, his voice hollow. The woman just looked at him inquisitive.

"He deserved to be with Allison," Stiles clarified. "She-she was so alone and all she wanted was to talk to him one last time. And Scott – he was so broken. Only going through the motions without any life behind it. Without Allison it seemed as if the light had been sucked out of him. They were falling apart and I put them back together." The boy smiled. Before the woman could say anything, the door to the room was thrown open and to figures walked in.

"Scott?" Stiles asked looking like he was seeing ghosts – and maybe he was? "Lydia?" Both teens stared at him. "But-but…why?"

"We´re here to save you," Scott announced, looking as earnest as ever.

"No-no-no," Stiles said. His hands began shaking. "You´re dead. You´re with Allison." His breathing became short and shallow; the shaking amplified. It was too much.

"You´re agitating my patient," the woman said to the two teens who in turn narrowed their eyes at her. "Please leave now."

"We won´t leave Stiles behind," Scott said, Lydia nodding her head in agreement behind him. "We´ll save him!"

"Aw, Scotty, that´s so sweet!" Another arrival. A figure looking like Stiles, standing before the window front. But something was off. Non-Stile´s gaze was cold and calculating and his smile was more a cruel grimace than the warm smiles that Stiles usually wore. "Coming down into dear little Stile´s subconscious just for me." Scott took a defensive position in front of Lydia as his eyes flashed red and his fingers sprouted claws.

"Stiles is mine," Non-Stiles – Nogitsune – hissed as he strode forward threateningly. "I´m the master of his mind. Just look!" He pointed at Stiles sitting on the couch who didn't look at them, just starring at the wall without any trace of emotions on his face. "I created his reality. He lives by my rules – again and again and again. I am his everything. _I am his God!_ "

"You won´t be forever," Lydia said full of fury. "Sooner or later he will break free from you."

"Such bravado!" Nogitsune mocked. "Where was your concern – your consideration – all those years when you had nothing but scorn for him? When you ignored him on the hallways, when you ridiculed him with your friends who weren't your friends after all? Where was your _humanity_ then, hmm?

And now you´re clinging to him like he was the only thing that keeps you from coming undone. The supernatural, the mystical – it´s a brave new world and you, my dear little banshee, are not ready for it. You never were. But you see Stiles and how he seems to handle everything the supernatural throws at him better than you. You feel like you´re drowning and Stiles is your lifeline. But when you finally learn how to swim – will you still be there with him?" Without knowing it Lydia had taken some steps back, to bring distance between her and the nogitsune that spouted words so hurtful, yet partially true.

"And you, Scott!" Nogitsune exclaimed as he turned to face the alpha. "Brothers in all but blood, you proudly proclaim to the world. And yet – where were you when Stiles tried to keep everything from falling apart? When Stiles researched everything to help you mastering your powers so that you wouldn't be killed by the Argents? Did you thank him – _protect him_ – as it was his due? Oh no, you didn't. While Stiles connected the dots and tied up the loose ends there was only one thing on your mind and it wasn't your supposedly best friend. No, it was _Allison Argent_ – from the very family that tried to kill every one of your friends at least once – who was your number one priority."

"Stiles, you don't really believe that!" Scott said, but the figure on the couch wouldn't move. Wouldn't look up to him to meet his gaze. The nogitsune´s grin became wider, more feral.

"But he does," it said. "Maybe he never said it and maybe he never accepted it even to himself, but deep within his mind the notion exists. And that is what makes me strong."

"You can try fighting me," Nogitsune smirked. "I´m always up for a good fight." It thrusted its hands forward and Scott and Lydia were pushed out of the room – out of Stiles' subconscious – the door closing behind them, barring them from entering again.

Nogitsune strode behind the couch Stiles was sitting on – still catatonic and completely obvious to his environment – until it stood behind the boy. Now fear began amassing behind those whiskey-golden eyes and the shaking returned.

"Those two interrupted us at a vital point," it explained in mock hurt. "Now we have to redo everything again." Stiles whimpered and shook his head.

"Shush," Nogitsune said, slowly caressing Stiles with his hands. "You mustn't be fearful. You did so good the first time around. Maybe you´ll beat yourself this time." Darkness descended.

* * *

There were two people in the room.

"Let me hear your story, Stiles," the woman implored. "And I won´t give you pity." The boy seemed to think about it. He looked her straight in the eyes. Then his gaze broke and he looked down on the ground.

"I don't know where to begin," he whispered and only the silence of the room allowed the woman to hear it. "I don´t know what to tell."

"Then maybe you shouldn't start with the 'what', but the 'why'," the woman said. She put the pen and the notebook aside and folded her hands in her lap. "Tell me why you killed Scott McCall."

* * *

 **So, here it is: the ending!**

 **I hope that the way I wrote the decline of Stiles' mental health was believable. In the end I decided against killing Scott permanently, but yet you really can't say that it is a happy ending.**

 **I wanted to write a angsty/non-comfort story and I hope that I was successful.**

 **Thank you all for reading :)**


End file.
